Sugar Water
by Zaedah
Summary: 'You're suggesting sober sex' - He fails, it should be noted, to look appalled.


**_There is a point to the following shippish postulation and I dare you to find it!_  
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><p><strong>Sugar Water<strong>

She knows the unpleasant man by the sight of his unfortunate bowtie. The former college linebacker, who believes that quaint barbershop attire will cement his legend, jerks his uppermost chins in her direction as her trajectory veers to the crowded counter. It's a sticky affair and she resists any urge to lean on the surface to seek her answers. Which she'll have to request above the volume. With a hand apparently stuck inside the tumbler he's been polishing, the barkeep gestures his glass-encased fist to the back right corner, where booths are settled at odd angles under television screens.

She knows the missing man by the back of his oft-struck head. Her partner's hair is darkened by the colored neon overhead. It casts the kind of etching shadows that might worry someone not versed in DiNozzo. With the grave expression and the straight spine, he resembles a contract killer waiting for briefcase of money. A tilt of that head brings his profile into view, which does little to ease the concern that dragged her out of her pajamas and into rainy streets. He is alone, an open file in his hand. Before him, a dark drink in a tall glass. And a cell phone that must have alerted him to the four calls he'd opted to ignore.

The bartender has a list of important numbers, like a Hollywood madam, taped to the wall behind the imported whiskey. Emergency contacts for favored patrons who might, after a fit of comprehensive celebration, might need a lift home. Wouldn't do to allow a faithful wallet to be crushed in transit. She'd received that call before. But not tonight. Tonight is about intuition. About the rescue minus someone using the cat signal. Or whatever it is.

The high-backed booth obscures part of the table but she knows it will be besieged by a battalion of shot glasses. Probably arranged in a circular pattern only he can see. In truth, more than one evening's entertainment has included Tony explaining the intricate system of curves and spirals with a tongue knotted in a slur. And so she must ask;

"How many dozens has he had?"

"Half," the battered face yells over the head of a working girl.

"Six already?" This is not surprising. When the mood takes him, Tony's standards rely on an equal contribution of quantity and quality. By no means a thrifty drunk.

"No," the bartender says as his newly freed hand brushes a rag over the counter, merely redistributing the mess. "One half, as in half a drink. And he's nursing the hell out of it, too." Another fruitless swipe. "And I can't make any money off him that way." The rag is tossed into a bucket. "And it's Coke," which is spat from his insulted mouth, donating more droplets to the surface.

"Coke?"

"Of course. Won't catch me using Pepsi products. But he's usually a better customer than that, is what I'm say - "

The gripe over his single-client-based financial future is a trailing mumble in her departing ear. It's not difficult to make a soundless approach when the surroundings run the decibels of a rock festival. The choices are: karaoke in one corner, two separate editions of Sportscenter on the jumbo plasmas and something claiming to be a reality show that bears no resemblance to any reality Ziva's ever visited. Over her partner's jacketless shoulder, she can see the cold beads of condensation on the unfinished glass tracking downward. A ring is being formed on the otherwise unoccupied table.

"Are you stalking me?"

Caught, Ziva stops beside the booth and whisks away any facial arrangement that might be construed as apologetic. This is a public place, after all and she's fairly sure there are no restraining orders between them. Some part of her, the section dedicated to mistrust, wants to sample his drink to ensure the barman's claim.

"The cola has enhanced your latent ninja skills?"

Tony shifts, removing his feet from the opposing bench, an invitation. "The foundation of my being is advanced. You should be awed."

Her smile whispers condescension. "Awed because you managed to see my reflection in the TV screen?"

"Awed because I had the foresight to pre-order your drink."

Which comes on the practiced tray of a pretty girl in a halter top. Ziva wonders, by the long look the stranger gives her distractingly rumpled partner, if he's slept with her. The thought is sent to the abyss where that girl's notion of appropriate fabric has also gone to die. He's increasingly more tasteful. These days. She keeps forgetting that. Sometimes she struggles to decide if she's just stopped listening or if the conquest bragging has genuinely become so rare.

Condensation slicks her fingers, runs perpendicular along a pinky nail that hasn't been painted since her sister...

The aftertaste is liquid audacity. "You knew I was coming?"

"You knew I was here." He's trying not to pay homage to her breasts. She's trying not to remember that she'd selected this bra specially. "Not sure what that says about us."

"Have we become predictable?"

Raising his glass, Tony knocks back a portion of corn syrup. "We should do something about that."

"Like drink soda at a bar while perusing a gruesome murder file?"

"Everything you've said in the last five minutes has been in the form of a question. I noticed that because I'm not drunk." Tony drains his glass as though it serves the point better empty. "Sobriety has its merit."

"Intoxication has not stopped you from noticing things." She'll leave three questions, each troublesome, tucked behind her teeth. Yet he hears them and answers them all at once with a sigh.

"I shouldn't have done that."

Here it comes. She sits back, letting the cushioned upholstery support her spine. "There was concurrence in our actions."

"There was liquor in our actions."

"Which is why you hide behind Coke and torment me with Sprite?"

"Ensuring level heads." Clearly he's proud of his initiative.

"A simple change in latitude accomplishes this."

"Shouldn't have done that either."

Her tightened posture would have been intimidating if the neon wasn't dulling her glare into a squint. "I believe my line is, 'you had no complaints last night.'"

"So you're okay with this colossal mistake?"

"I am not okay with using witness statements as bar reading material." Lemon-lime is gulped, stalling, stalling, stalling, and then her hand swipes at damp lips. "The mistake was calling McGee afterward. However, clearly the topic of gloating was subject to the laws of inevitability."

But as the pictorial of death lay forgotten in manila before him, Tony chews on something unrelated to waking colleagues at three am. His voice is dipped into the well of penitence.

"I took advantage of you."

The suggestion of fault would be humorous were he not engraved by deep lines of seriousness.

"Inebriation emboldened," she counters, "but did not alter our sum. No amount of liquor would spin me into a weakened damsel, lead astray by something outside of my choosing."

The theory of choice is contemplated like an item on a greasy menu; carefully and with barest contact. In his eyes lives the twin reflection of a sports recap and, beyond the shine of graphics, such dark things. Motive and opportunity are bred here.

"So you're not blaming me?"

"Is that why you're here? To use carbonated sugar water to wash down your assumed guilt?"

"No one uses sugar anymore. It's a high-fructose corn syrup world."

"Tony..."

"Look," glancing around the slowly thinning populace, Tony shrugs. "It's a procrastinating alcoholic thing. The act of drinking anything in this ambiance makes me feel like I'm giving into vice."

"Thus the craving is satisfied?" Her smile turns shy, a ploy she knows he will read.

"Not entirely." Damn him for letting the smolder off the leash. "But I can live with it."

"A wonder, the things we can... live with."

His swallow makes its own racket above the noise. "I don't think sitting platonically on your couch will satisfy _that_ particular craving."

"At least," Ziva swirls the glass's remaining liquid, "this cannot be called an accomplice. This time."

"You're suggesting sober sex?" He fails, it should be noted, to look appalled.

"I'm suggesting that we do not waste your sugar high." She blinks. "Or your high-fructose whatever."

"Because there are thirsty children in China?"

Her index finger trails along the twitching muscles on the back of his hand. "As long as they don't watch..."


End file.
